Reprisal
by LyingToYourInstincts
Summary: another one that is all sad and angsty gumlee because that is all I know
1. luxuria

It was a lonesome kind of night, which was exactly what Marshall had needed to tip him over the edge, to just surpass the brink of desperation. Rain pitter pattered in rapid rhythmic rotations along the antiquated hotel room windows, tapping its interruptions just consistently enough to drown out the vocals of oncoming vehicles. Which was saying something, considering the pitiful hotel's location among busy city streets.

"Are you okay?"

Marshall bit his bile and nodded, hair dripping perfect pristine patterns on an archaic mattress. Outside wasn't his issue now. He toyed with the thin fabric of the singular bed sheet, it had a dry and scratchy texture to it and felt grainy as old sand lying in his condensed palm. And as for the fact that this was all the bed was decorated with, well, Marshall had neither the money nor reputation to rightfully complain. Still, he found himself doing just that despite his "lowly" ranking. Only bed sheets on a cold night like this? Wasn't the staff weary of clients freezing to death? Weren't frozen clients more liable to sue?

Outside the rainfall had strengthened, though the visual source of such noise remained hidden by raggedy blinds and a fair amount of darkness. All current actions and situations considered, darkness was better than its familial alternative.

"I was speaking to you."

Marshall just then realized that the other man couldn't see him in the fading evening light, or at the very least he couldn't see him well enough to decipher what was or wasn't a nod.

"I'm fine."

The response came out bolder and more aggressive than genuinely intended. Bordering on rude. Marshall quickly chalked it up to nervousness and hoped the other would do the same.

The stranger cleared his throat.

"Really? Because you aren't exactly my usual sort of customer, and I understand if you find that you've changed your- "

"I said I'm fine!"

Definitely rude this time. And unnecessarily so, the man was here for one thing and one thing only, and would likely soon have other clients to attend to. It was only natural that he didn't see any logic in elongating the process.

Marshall's clothes were starting to itch. He was certain that he smelled quite terribly of booze, an aroma that his wife would surely scold him for the very moment he got home. He wasn't an alcoholic quite yet, but if he kept up like this then it was possible he soon would be. Drinking did not a happy family make, and wife and child were soon to leave him if the trend continued. But Marshall didn't really care, at least not as much as he should have. It was hardly about them anyways; they were merely the setting of the play that was his life. Call it callous, he called it adulthood.

As for Marshall's prevailing predicament, he probably should have, _could have_ apologized. It wasn't as if he didn't learn his manners all those years ago when tired teachers were drilling mathematics and ABC's and simplistic history lessons in his cranium.

He could have apologized. But he didn't.

"Well, it certainly doesn't sound like it, considering your tone and all."

So that was it, the stranger was worried that Marshall was going to wuss out. That he was simply a waste of time. Though the notion may have very well been true, Marshall was still offended that the other dare to point it out, that he dare jump to conclusions about a person that he had just met. As if some hooker was in any position to look down on him.

Marshall scoffed, nearly choking on the remnants of city rainwater. Under light he would have resembled something of a drowned rat, too mean to feel sorry for, but too pathetic to loathe. Definitely not romantically or sexually appealing. His hair clung against the nape of his neck awkwardly like wet denim on a portly figure, his nose was red from the cold and likely soon to be dripping. He tugged at his tie and collar in attempt to stop his other problem, the itching. Maybe it was the sheets…

"So what, you're some sort of therapist now?"

The other man laughed. Not a full hearted laugh, but something worth its salt all the same. It was of course too dark to actually see the motion, yet Marshall still knew that his smooth sloped shoulders were jumping up and down in that overly fluffy pink jacket off his, and his mouth would soon fall into a quirky lopsided smile. He knew because these were things he had picked up on from watching him interact with others in the bar, he knew this because it was the reason he was here with him and not someone else. Not that any of these characteristics would make a difference in the long run, he just found it easier to open up to someone with a kinder face.

Little had he known that the face came accompanied with such a snarky can-do attitude.

If he enjoyed attitude, he would have been seeing his wife.

"I might've been."

There was a story to that somewhere but they both knew that this wasn't the time. Marshall had already wasted enough of his time already, even he knew that was on him. The man in the pink coat finally made his move and joined Marshall on the bed, and the lumpy mattress shifted under this newfound weight. When the stranger spoke again, there was something soft inside of him. Like he was talking to a small child, an infant even.

"You're obviously nervous."

Marshall lifted one hand off of the mattress and shifted his soggy tie once more. The bed groaned in retort.

"It's not exactly a regular hobby of mine, if that's what you're asking," he finally admitted, as if it weren't blatant in the way he crossed his legs like a shy schoolgirl and shifted away from the other's companionship, "but I assumed that didn't matter." By this point Marshall was in desperate need of another beer, but this kind of rain wasn't walking weather, and he had just blown his last handful of cash on other matters. Cash he was supposed to have exchanged for groceries.

When he finally did return home, his wife would be kicking his ass on multiple accounts. Such is family life.

"Probably not," the other agreed, "you wouldn't be my first."

Marshall understood that this was an effort at reassurance, but it only succeeded in making him more embarrassed and awkward about the current situation. Never in a million years did he see himself in a position like this, not with another guy, especially not someone that he had to hire. It made him feel pathetic as he dwelled on it. The rain had soaked him so to the bone that even as he sat near enough to share the body heat of another, Marshall felt stricken with unshakable chills and the occasional chattering of teeth.

Then again, maybe it was more than just the rain.

"About that. Before we do… whatever it is that homos do, I've kind of got a request."

The bed creaked again, the distinct noise highly diverse from the pitch of the bold rainstorm commencing outside of the three-star hotel building.

"You have nothing to be worried about. I'll be gentle."

Marshall shivered again. His hair had mostly stopped dripping but the liquid footprints lie present all the same, speckling the sheets as droplets of dye. He really needed to get his hair cut, the mane was growing shaggy even by his standards.

 _Haircuts…_

"That's not at all what I was going to say." By this point Marshall had completely given up on his bargain brand tie, and it lay discarded on the cold bedroom floor, piled on top of itself like a mangled up serpent.

It took Marshall a significant amount of time to realize that the following silence was an invitation to continue. He cracked his knuckles. Probably not a prerequisite, but it was something that he always found himself doing when nervous.

"I was going to say,"

Marshall looked out into blackness, the taste of one too many drinks still vibrant on his tongue, the humming still vividly present in his head. His clothes hadn't gotten too soiled in the little journey, but his thick head of hair was still damp despite the lack of dripping, and it chilled him even more.

"I assume some of you 'prolly don't do that kind of stuff anyways but-please don't kiss me.

The weight on the bed repeated its shifting, squeaking like a newborn child. Slowly but surely the man in the pink jacket was drawing himself closer, but he moved himself in subtle fractions as if easing Marshall into it all.

"An odd request, given your current situation and all. "

Marshall was quick to jump to his own defense, as he often was.

"Look, if you'd just rather me leave, then I will."

He just couldn't make it real like that, not with a guy. Not when he had a wife for Christ's sake. Marshall Lee wasn't about to kiss anyone that he didn't absolutely positively love. Cliché and schoolgirl-ish as it might be, it was his stance on the matter, his own pre-set limitation to the process of lies and infidelity. A stance he was willing to defend even after all the marital conflicts and late night one too many's. One of the few moral high grounds that he was willing to take…ever.

The other nodded wisely, or at the very least Marshall imagined that he was doing so. If he closed his eyes he could almost see that gentle face slowly moving, elevator-style. With that scholarly holier-than thou look that would perfectly match his uppity tone.

"Very well."

Marshall mistakenly deduced this meant that his companion was leaving, with his money no less, until he felt fingers latched around the belt loops of his aged denim, beckoning him closer and then melting into hands, hands warm and comforting in contrast to the frigid night. He sighed. He closed his eyes, leaving the world behind, and let the warmth explode.

He forgot about the rain.

* * *

 **I wrote this sometime last year when I got bored of working on the other one. But why the obsession with portraying their relationship opposite to how it is typically portrayed? Is it personal preference? Is it my obsession with emphasizing that femininity doesn't have to be a submissive role and gay and bisexual males are so much more than the crude stereotype of "rebellious badboy equals top, fem equals bottom"? Or I am just trying to humanize Marshall in a way he rarely is? Tune in next time time to never find out.-Writer**


	2. luxuria ll

Marshall Lee woke up to find himself completely and utterly alone. This much wasn't exactly what one might brand as unusual, as Fiona was often up and moving considerably earlier than him. What was unusual, was the fact that he hadn't woke up in his own house. The bits and pieces of sunlight that he could discern were all chopped up and mismatched by the blinds that censored them, and they shone in on his tired face in all the wrong ways. He squinted, lest he blind himself. His body ached and he was suffering major headache vibes, compliments of his killer hangover.

His late-night partner had long since split, and left him with...Marshall hung his stomach over the mattress and rifled through his pockets...too damn little. There was no way this shit could pass as grocery money. What kind of whore cost that much? Marshall began to stand up, but the moment he did so he felt a searing pain raid the lower portion of his body.

 _That kind of whore._

How many drinks had it taken him to find himself in bed with another man? Marshall hoped a lot. Because this could not be happening again. Wasting all your shopping money on booze was one thing. Cheating on your wife with high priced hookers was another entirely.

He winced of soreness as he redressed himself. Marshall didn't bother checking the time, he knew it was Late For Your Fucking Job 'o Clock simply by the rays that splashed so brightly across his face.

He wondered how he ever managed his job in the first place, what with all the excess hours he spent either blacked out, hung over, or fighting with his wife. But he was a hard worker, when he did bother showing up. At least, in his opinion. He put things where they went and he smiled when he had to. If only the same could be said of his personal life.

When he finally made the awkward walk home Fiona was at the door, strawberry face and firecracker eyes. She stood still as a statue, with both arms crossed in front of her. She had been waiting. Of course, she had been waiting. She was always waiting, nothing Marshall had ever done for his wife was good enough for her, and the very idea of pleasing her left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Where the hell were you? I thought you said you got off early." 

Marshall winced at the very mention of such a word. Early. Had he made the mistake of sharing his schedule? He didn't remember doing so, but it was hard to remember much of anything with his majorly throbbing head ache. How much did he drink last night? It surely took more than a bottle or two of cheap booze to cause him this kind of physical and emotional agony.

Upon realizing she would not be receiving an answer anytime soon, she sighed and tried again. Fiona looked so pretty in the morning, what with her monstrous Rapunzel hair all thrown in her face and the imprint of sleeplessness painted across her cheeks. Only Marshall wasn't thinking of that, he was thinking more of the ringing in his ears and how long it would take her to shift out of the way even for a second, and let him back into the house that _he_ had paid for.

"Well, at the least you must've gotten groceries."

Marshall wearily ran his eyes about himself. Not a single brown bag in sight, not one plastic or paper bundled up in the crevices of his crossed arms. And he still did not know what to say. "I...I've..." Fiona groaned as she recognized her worries as the realities of this situation. She could smell the dead fruit pushing past his lips and seeping outwards every time he opened his mouth to speak. It made her want to scream and it made her want to cry. But she opened the door fully now, letting her good for nothing husband drift back onward into her life.

His daughter was at the breakfast table already, chowing down on whatever it was that she liked to eat. She was dressed all ridiculously, and if her mother kept this up, she'd surely wind up getting bullied. Little girls can't be left to only dress as they please.

"Papa! Are you here to take me to school today?!" Simonina squirmed excitedly in her seat. Her lengthy brown braids slid about with the motion. Her hair would soon grow in darker, as it was a trait of his and not of her mother's.

"Of course," He replied, willing to hop onto anything that got him out of working for the day. Seeing his boss would of course make Marshall's puke-ish state even more puke-ish.

Fiona glared at him, with such a look he had not seen from her in a long time. She wouldn't dare bring up the drunkenness in front of daddy's little girl, but over her dead body would ever let her daughter into a vehicle with a man who had been drinking.

"Papa would love to," she said softly, "but he is feeling much too sick today," she was gathering up the breakfast dishes as she spoke; always busy, always bustling, always eager to prove how much of a superior parent she was, "Perhaps sometime next week?"

"Nonsense," Lee slurred, swiping his hand in the direction of the counter top, the countertop littered with the glittering figment which was car keys, "I'm feeling fine, only your mama doesn't want me to spend time with you."

Simonina gasped at the very concept, as she was still quite obviously very young and socially inept in regards to her father's drunkenness. "Is this true," she said, "Is this true?" Fiona didn't answer, they were going to be late soon so it was up and away and into the car and Marshall was left reaching his hand outward for some car keys that were no longer there.


	3. luxuria lll

Ashley was Marshall's ex girlfriend. They had both started and stopped dating amidst the duration of his marriage, using their shared occupation as a backdrop for blatant infidelity. Now to spare feelings on both ends, they setted on just screwing. Who needed the trivialities of romance and falling in love anyways? Certainly not Marshall, the kind of person who could only maintain bursts of ultimate obsessive passion or no emotion whatsoever. Not to mention the economic impact of having a full time mistress, they worked the same job and fully realized how underpaid it kept the both of them. As a matter of fact, Marshall would consider quitting the very second he found a job equally appreciative of his "abilities". But enough about Marshall.

She had her lengthy platinum mane pulled back into a ponytail today, as opposed to it sitting just behind either ear as per usual. She looked pretty this way, with more of her face visible, with her soft brown eyes gazing luridly at him and only him. She was, open-mouthed, fine-lipped and small nosed. She generally looked very pretty, by anyone's standards. And today she looked especially so. But he would never tell her this. He didn't dare give her that kind of satisfaction.

"Is like, something wrong with you today?"

She was only five years his junior, yet she still often stumbled over words or fell victim to the newest slang, like some sort of a snarky little kid. It weirded him out, like sleeping with her was the equivalent of wearing your socks from the third grade for twenty years and convincing yourself that they fit you just fine. And why ask him if he was okay? Did it matter? Was it her business? She had to have some sort of ulterior motive to be asking such shamelessly investigative questions.

"Shut up," he hissed, probably a little more mean and a little less sexy than necessary. He helped her to unbutton her work shirt, an action he partook of so often that on occasion he did it with his eyes closed, just to amuse himself and take pride in his own abilities. But today he could barely handle button one. His hands were trembling, as if it were his first time. He rocked back and forth on his feet, very slightly. There was hardly room to do so in the cramped cleaner's closet, but it wasn't as if the actions were any choice of his own.

He was beginning to feel lightheaded, he was beginning to feel like he couldn't breathe, the walls were closing in on him and this was his own divine punishment. He had two more buttons to go. But it felt like an eternity had passed from when he started. The dryness of his tongue was being threatened by the shakiness which afflicted his stomach. Mix the two adversities with one another and he found himself faced with an intoxicatingly woeful stew, one that only furthered both sicknesses and their conjoined mental impact.

"Marsh?"

He looked up to meet her eyes with the question, but it wasn't her anymore but him, his face staring right back. They had the same damn eyes. Marshall tried to answer, but his stomach did a double flip, causing his "answer" to spill outward, pelting her overpriced synthetic lingerie with its frothy hot essence. Splattering beige and greenish bits about a formerly flawless canvas. Just one more button-

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" She spit the words like knives, shoving him away from her. In turn, Marshall stumbled over an entire cart full of sanitary supplies, hitting his head on every single one as he went down. Not longer caring if he was okay or not, Ashley sprang from the room, taking her now unbottned top with her. She was probably about to be fired for such an act, though that wasn't the first, second, or third thought on her mind.

And still, sprawled against a decade's worth of Clorox and other harsh chemicals, head lolled back and eyes squeezed shut mid-wince, Marshall could see the outline of the man he'd went to bed with, staring back at him.

He was utterly fucked.


	4. luxuria IV

"Back so soon?" Usually the utterance of such a phrase would imply haughtiness and maybe even a sliver of ridicule, though from his lips it did not resound as such. Still, Marshall was agitated by the words, and took them as personal as possible. The bar smelled like wet cigarettes and dog, despite the fact that it was not raining tonight. If anything, it was bizarre that it was not raining tonight. The seasons were amidst their summer/fall/winter waltz, the kind of dance that left the skies dirty and the streets wet almost every time that things got black. So what was different about this night in particular?

"Who says I'm here for you?" Marshall retorted, and he sunk further into his drink, further into the bubble bits that rose so gallantly to the top before bursting into loneliness. The other was next to him, not sitting but standing, leaning proud against the countertop with his flouncy jacket falling lower than his shoulder line. To see those arms so naked made Marshall's headache return.

"You're drinking more than usual." It was true, though Marshall cursed the obviousness of it. And how would such a stranger know? This was not his place to proclaim, much less his place to notice in the first place. To be fair, the prostitute had been known to frequent this place for years, and it was kind of impossible for the two not to eventually lay eyes on each other. But all these years Marshall had cast his eyes more downward, refusing to fall victim to the stare of another as he drank his hopes and dreams to death in the one-story tavern. It was, with a feeling of defeat that Marshall looked at him now.

He had a chipped tooth. Not so much noticeable that it was disgusting, and if anything, it only made his appearance all the more interesting and unique, like there was a story about him that could be easily misplaced. He had dimples and laugh lines and unusually thick brows that fell firmly on his face, locked into his skin like all those secrets that he slept away with motel room strangers. And he was looking right back at Marshall, equally analytic though not nearly as desperate.

"I'd say something along the lines of, "Looking for a good time?", but I feel it's dull and cliché at this point." He leaned forward then, and wrapped his lips around the rim of Marshall's glass, sucking accordingly. His eyes held an innocence that the movement did not. He had foam on his mouth. Marshall couldn't bring himself to scold him, considering that he hadn't started on that particular glass anyways. Besides, it was nice just to watch him. Marshall mentally kicked himself for thinking it was nice just to watch him.

"Marshall."

Marshall sucked in a breath of surprise until remembering. He was still wearing his retail uniform, and the little white name tag decorated in bold Verdana text. The hooker was looking at it now, as it rests just above his heart, just above thick layers of a blue Sam's Club uniform. Marshall liked the way his name was on his tongue. He wondered what else he might like on his tongue. He then scolded himself for wondering.

"You're stalling."

The other man smiled. Like a majestic bird he preened himself, puffing out his chest and realigning the fluffiness of his coat. "Am I? You haven't given me any money yet." Marshall's face flushed the red of embarrassment as he clambered about hid denim pants pocket. A thick wad slipped itself into his skin, and he tried to look cool by not counting it but the effect was completely lost when the stranger counted it in front of him anyways.

He smiled a bit more. "That's more than last time," he said, because it was, "Just what more are you asking for?" Marshall leaned towards him now, sour breath lingering over his ear as he minimized the magnitude of his voice. The other's face gleamed wickedly upon realization, his eyes sparkled bitterly against the street lights and the lamplights and the shimmer of oncoming traffic out the bar window. "Hope you stretched."


	5. luxuria V

As one would have likely hypothesized on their own, Marshall was without the mental dexterity to find himself working anything beyond retail, despite pushing middle age and being handed many opportunities throughout his lifetime. This did not mean that he was anywhere near stupid, just far too stubborn and distracted to muster up what would be required of him in regards to pursuing a more desirable occupation. Today in particular, was chalking up to be one of the more "distracted" sorts of days.

Marshall was lining up all the craft supplies now, filling up uniform grey shelves while his mind filled up with other things.

"I've forgiven you, you know. For your puke sesh."

Ashley was not lining up craft supplies. She was not doing much of anything at all, excluding toying with the frailer bits of her stringy platinum braid. Marshall was surprised that she had yet to be fired, considering she had run around half naked just the other day. He was also surprised that she had yet to have _him_ fired. But in the grander scheme of things, he did not care.

There wasn't any specific way that these items were supposed to decorate their intended shelves, but Marshall found himself lining things up by color. A sloppy rendition of a knick-knack induced rainbow was beginning to take form, starting somewhere in the deep reds and ending up somewhere in the loud greens. When Ashley got closer to him, Marshall would slam whatever was in his hand down so loudly that his counterpart would produce a small and nervous jump, and this brought him joy. But not enough joy to start being kind to her.

Ashley did not like a lot of things, but she particularly did not like being ignored. Her smoke breathe wafted is way over to his nostrils as she leaned in closer, cleavage further exposed by the confident yet curious tilt of her developed body. Marshall didn't care about that either. "Are you even listening to me?" she asked, knocking several market kits downward with her fidget-y hand. She knelt to replace them at the same time her coworker did, and banged her noggin accordingly.

"Are you totally dense?!"

Marshall looked at her now, for the first time of that day. It was a very quick glance over, one made complete with tired and unfeeling eyes.

"Are you? I'm trying to work here." Ashley huffed petulantly in response, bending herself again to reach the last marker still remaining, which had rolled its way out of what must have already been a busted packet.

"So am I," she retorted, "but apparently you'd rather line up school supplies in a state of solitude." And with that she handed him the last marker, the one that had rolled from busted and was now splayed out perfectly in her smooth little hand. Marshall reached for it cautiously, as if have expecting her hand to snag onto his like a voracious beast at any moment, and pull the entirety of his body into hers in a less than sensual fashion. He reached for it even more so cautiously, once he realized what color it was. As if she could have known all along, and the entire arts and crafts section was nothing more than an elaborate ploy to make jest of his orientation. He stared, awe struck at the single strip of washable Crayola. Realizing at last that he wasn't going to take it, Ashley sighed and tucked it back away herself.

"You're acting strange," she said, as she fiddled with her follicles once more.

"I'm acting strange? I puked on your naked body the other day. And you think it's some sort of invitation to a friendship?" Marshall tried to lace himself around the toxicity he was spewing, though his mind kept wandering to other places, and his eyes kept lingering on the re-homed marker, as opposed to the well-endowed woman standing right in front of him. It was impossible to focus on anything at the moment, much less being mean. He could feel his cheeks widen and his lips part more earnestly when he spoke. He could hear the sense of apathy in his voice, the sense that he was devoid of any interest in their conversation or general relationship. And he could feel hands, warm and tight and all over his body in ways that your local pastor wouldn't approve.

And it was for all these reasons that Ashley did not take offense to his offensive comments. She went about as usual, rushing to get her words out before they were senselessly overpowered. "You were just acting so godamn weird then (and now), so I just figure there's something like, majorly mentally wrong with you. Also, you were probably hungover, (not that that means much, because you're always hung over) and it isn't like I've never puked myself before either. So then I was like, thinking that maybe "What the hell is wrong with you", was an unjustified response on my part. But that shit was Victoria's Secret, ok?"

If in any other state, Marshall himself would have been awestruck by such a confessional. It was so unlike her to feel moved to the point of apology for anyone, least of all the bum-ish men she slept with. Lee had always just assumed she had no concept of humility, or ethics as a whole. Not that he had such a moral grasp himself, but he had assumed likeness in the younger woman, as that was part of what compelled him to pursue her in the first place.

But in this particular moment, Marshall felt indifferent. Not because the lackluster apology wasn't groundbreaking, but because his mind still lie on the marker and all its allusions. To feel so passionately about anything or anyone ever was inherently shameful, and Marshall did not need someone reprimanding the fact. What he needed was a round…was it a round four at this point? Marshall had begun to notice the days blend together, as if he had never known one without such pleasure. The past was as unreal as the future to him, and all that was and all that would ever be was the Crayola boxed set in aisle 15.

Marshall felt a warmth in his loins, one which he quite quickly tried to dismantle by re-analyzing he's current surroundings. He was at work. Working. Families and singles wandered his occupational habitat with overloaded carts and grimy hands and bodies. A man, a man who he recognized as someone who also worked, used his voice to speak something undiscernible into the intercom, only to be ignored by all the bustlers as well as his employed counterparts. In seeing and hearing all this plethora of nonsensicals, Marshall could relinquish a wee bit of his pent-up sexual frustration, and let it sliver past him like a scaled thing he never loved.

That was until Ashley looked at his marker, and then looked at him.

"You got something against the color pink?"


End file.
